by P J Brooke
‘Thanks. But I have to get back to Granada.’
Max went round the corner to his parked car, and set off for Granada as quickly as he could. At the Suspiro del Moro his mobile rang.
‘Dígame. Sí, Comisario Bonila. I’m on my way back to Granada right now. I’ll be there in about half an hour.’ Damn, he thought. This could really mess up Paula’s birthday for me.
Max increased his speed, and arrived at the police car park in twenty-five minutes. He went straight to Bonila’s office on the top floor. The whole top brass were there, from Bonila up to Cifuentes and General López.
‘Come in, Max. I’ve been explaining to everyone, so I’ll just summarize for you. Inspectora Jefe Concha called an hour ago. She got an email from the Anti-Terrorist Unit in London. They finally got round to doing something on Javeed Dharwish. Clearly hadn’t bothered their arses until now. But as they were unable to make contact with him, as they put it, they broke into his flat in London. The place had been cleaned out: laptop gone, phone messages cleared from the landline, nothing to identify him or link him to anything. Neighbours didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything. He has literally just disappeared.’
‘What?’ said Max.
‘Yes. But that’s not the worst. Inspectora Jefe Concha requested that they take the place apart – so they took up the floorboards. And under the floorboards of his bedroom they found a diagram of Malaga Airport.’
‘Malaga Airport?’
‘Yes. We now all agree that Malaga Airport could be, is likely to be, the target of a terrorist attack.’
‘And the others,’ asked Max. ‘The Moroccan guy, the Iraqi we sent back to Germany, the Algerian to France?’
‘Disappeared as well.’
‘Inspectora Jefe Concha is convinced they will be linking up with ETA for a planned attack.’
‘ETA? I don’t understand the connection. We never had any evidence of that,’ said Max.
‘Yes. But new evidence has come to light. One of the ETA prisoners in Bilbao confessed that ETA had made contact with Islamic terrorists for a spectacular. We are now convinced that the target is Malaga Airport.’
‘Confession? Beaten out of him? Bribed out him?’
‘Sub-Inspector Romero, that is enough. I understand from Inspector Jefe Davila that you have still not recovered fully from your accident. So we are asking you to be on standby here in Granada in my office. Your knowledge of English might be useful. We are all going to Malaga as soon as possible. I am leaving Inspector Jefe Felipe Chávez in charge. Report to him.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bonila turned to the others in the room. ‘Gentlemen, we must go.’
They all departed, leaving a bewildered Max sitting in Bonila’s office. He needed a coffee fast. Had he been sidelined? Should he believe the ETA stuff? If the Brits said Javeed had disappeared, and diagrams of an airport were hidden under a floorboard . . . well, they’d no reason to make it up. It didn’t look good. But the ETA connection? He should phone Martín, and find out what was going on.
Finishing his coffee, Max returned to Bonila’s office. He looked around at the fake antique leather-covered desk, at the swivel high-backed chair, at the certificates on the wall, at the photos of Bonila with wife and two boys, with the mayor, with various politicians – all the insignia of a man of power but little taste. Max sat at the desk. Could this be him in twenty years? Would he want that? Was he willing to make the shabby compromises, the constant economizing with the truth to get there? He picked up the phone and dialled Martín.
‘Martín? How are you? Max Romero here.’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘Could be spectacular.’
‘Bonila said all the guys we picked up in the raid have done a disappearing act.’
‘Yep. Great, isn’t it? So much for international cooperation over surveillance.’
‘What do you reckon might happen?
‘The smart money’s on them regrouping in Spain.’
‘Okay. I can accept that. But this ETA stuff?’
‘Sí. Probably coming from Miguel Allende through Linda.’
‘What a surprise.’
‘Max – could you have another look at the interviews and the other material from their interrogations?’
‘Okay, I’ll do what I can. Immediately.’
Max called up the files from the interrogations. There was a lot to go through. He jotted down anything that struck him. It did seem a bit strange that two guys with weak credentials should have been accepted on to the course. They just didn’t seem to fit. Perhaps he should chase that one up. Max retrieved a copy of the Ibn Rush’d Centre brochure from the files, and flipped through it. Yes, here it was, the names of the Governing Board. At the top was Professor William Saville, Professor of Business Ethics at the London School of Economics. There was a telephone number. Max dialled the number and waited. Finally a voice answered. ‘Professor Saville speaking.’
Max explained who he was.
‘Spanish police? Is there a problem?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘I hope it’s not serious.’
‘It could be. Has Dr Dharwish been in touch recently?’
‘No, but I’ve been in China for the last month. I was rather expecting an email from him. A couple of students were accepted on the course at very short notice, and I was a bit concerned that they might not be the right calibre.’
‘So what’s your selection procedure?’
‘We have the most thorough vetting of the candidates. Yes, we have a board who interviews them, and I always chair that board. This year we had a problem. Three of the successful candidates dropped out at the last minute, and the reserve list had all got fixed up with other things or couldn’t be contacted.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Dr Dharwish said he had two good additional candidates who could go at the last minute and he’d send me their papers. I was leaving for a trip to China, so I only had time to glance at them.’
‘So what did you think?’
‘I wasn’t very impressed, but I had to trust Javeed’s judgement, or the course wouldn’t run. I phoned Javeed to say I was unsure these two would make the grade. He assured me he had interviewed them himself, and they were much better candidates than their CVs and outline projects showed. So I said okay. After all it was really his show.’
‘Do you know where I can find Dr Dharwish?’
‘No. But I’ve only been back a few hours, and I’m expecting him to make contact soon . . . Yes, if Javeed makes contact, I’ll phone you immediately. Could I know what this is all about?’
‘Just something really urgent. But I can’t go into details at this stage. I can contact you later when things are clearer.’
‘Please. I’d be grateful. I want this project to succeed.’
‘Oh, by the way,’ said Max, ‘could you give me the names and phone numbers of the three candidates who had to drop out?’
‘I’ll have to look up the files. Could take some time.’
‘It’s urgent.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it straight away.’
Max drummed his knuckles on the inlaid leather desk. It did not look good. Professor Saville rang back ten minutes later with contact phone numbers. Max hurriedly phoned the first number. A male voice, oldish, with a Manchester accent answered the phone. ‘That’ll be my son you want. Wait a minute, I’ll get him.’ Another younger Manchester voice answered. ‘Yes . . . I was meant to be doing the Ibn Rush’d course. Then two days before my flight, the Director called. Said this course was cancelled . . . No, I haven’t heard any more.’
Max rang the second and third numbers. It was the same story.
He hurriedly phoned Martín.
‘Gracias,’ said Martín. ‘I’ll pass this on. We’re treating this as a potential terrorist attack, and Javeed Dharwish and the others as terrorist suspects. We’ve alerted all airports and points of entry i
nto Spain with orders to arrest on sight and treat as highly dangerous. We’re surrounding Malaga Airport with armed marksmen. The problem is they are probably in Spain by now, and we don’t know where. Keep me posted. We have a race against time. It doesn’t look good.’
Max put the phone down. He’d better go and see Inspector Jefe Chávez. He went along the corridor and knocked on the door.
‘Enter,’ a voice called out.
Max entered.
‘Ah. Max. Good to see you. Feeling better?’
‘Much better, sir.’
‘What can I do for you?’
‘Comisario Bonila said I should stay in his office in case anything urgent came up on the Dharwish case, and that I should report to you. Also, sir, I have arranged to take my abuela to Blood Wedding tomorrow night for her birthday with the rest of the family. Did Comisario Bonila say anything about leave being cancelled?’
‘No . . . No problem with tomorrow night. In fact, leave at lunchtime. Comisario Bonila was in such a rush I don’t think he thought things through. He probably forgot that you still need to rest. I’ll arrange that any phone calls going to his office are diverted to me. Be useful if you could come in tomorrow morning just in case there’s anything new.’
‘I appreciate that, sir.’
‘No problem. We don’t want you to have to take six weeks off because you came back too early, do we?’
Max saluted, and left. He felt an urgent need to talk to Abbot Jorge. He phoned the abbey.
‘Max, how are you? Heard you had an accident. Fell off a mountain or something?’
‘Or something. But I’m fine. Can I come and see you?’
‘Sure. Come over now, and stay for supper. We’re not allowed many vices, so we spoil ourselves a little in good food and wine.’
‘I remember. I’ve eaten with you,’ said Max laughing.
‘Ah. A few kisses on some of our holy relics and you can get a heavenly indulgence for your earthly ones. That’s what I call a bargain.’
‘You never change, Jorge.’
‘By the way, I’ve had a few thoughts on that chess game you asked me to look at. I’ll tell you about it when you’re over.’
Max went back to his office, quickly checked the incoming mail, and his emails. Nothing that couldn’t wait. He left the building, and drove along the Sacromonte road to the Abadía, towering on the hill above the valley.
Jorge opened the door. ‘Just in time . . . a little glass of our best manzanilla with some olives?’
‘I could do with that.’
They sat in Jorge’s study, overlooking the San Miguel fountain.
‘Well,’ said Jorge, settling back into his large, leather armchair. ‘Tell me the whole story.’
Max began at the beginning, the rock thrown at him, his cracked ribs, bruised head, the evidence against Juan, the confrontation with Juan, the conversation with Ahmed, the so-called proof and final verdict against Hassan, the disappearance of Javeed and the others, the terrorist alert, and his general confusion.
‘That’s quite a tale,’ said Jorge.
‘It’s been a busy couple of weeks. Have you had any ideas about the chess game?’
‘It would require a very skilled chess player to manoeuvre another into losing in the same way. But you said Javeed played well, didn’t you?’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Max. ‘How could I have overlooked it? In the original interview Hassan said he had won that chess game. Yet up at the Ibn Rush’d Centre, Javeed said he won. I’m sure of that. So that blows a hole in Hassan Khan’s alibi. God, I’ve been naive, haven’t I?’
‘A little too trusting perhaps, Max. But you did it for the right reasons. In such a dishonourable age, I prefer an honourable cop, even if he gets some things wrong.’
‘Maybe. We have to assume Javeed and company are planning something. It’s possible it was Javeed who killed Leila. Maybe Hassan said too much. It could really have been Hassan all along, and Gonzo was right. I don’t know. And then there’s Juan. What do I do about Juan, Jorge?’
‘That’s a difficult one. I would have recommended that he make a full statement to the police and trust the court would believe him if he was charged. But now – sometimes the truth can be the enemy of the good. I think you did the right thing. Let’s wait a little longer. Keep probing, and you might come up with something conclusive. I think it’s wise to let Ahmed think about it. Maybe he doesn’t want the world to know about his daughter’s affair with a married man, I would go along with what he decides . . . Come, let’s eat, and enjoy the good things of the Lord, be he Allah or God.’
They went down to the dining room. Jorge introduced Max to the other monks. The food was good and the wine flowed. There was a brief interlude while one of the younger monks read a passage from St John of the Cross. Max relaxed, pleased that no one questioned him about murders or terrorism, and happy that Jorge approved how he had handled the Juan dilemma.
Next morning, Max took the bus down to Gran Vía. Not a cloud in the sky. He cut through to police headquarters, stopping to admire the fountain in la Plaza de la Trinidad. Once in the office he picked up the phone to inform Martín about the chess game. He was about to phone when something struck him. What was it Hassan Khan kept chanting? Yes. ‘Whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it. Hassan Khan MA.’ MA – Malaga Airport, of course. He was raving about revenge. That was it, Malaga Airport. He phoned Martín. Martín was out. He asked for Linda. After a minute or two she answered the phone. Max hastily explained both the chess game, and Hassan Khan’s chant.
‘Max, I think you’re right. We were discussing whether the drawings of the airport under Javeed’s floorboards could be a deliberate decoy. He had been so careful to remove everything else – it looked suspicious. I’ll alert everyone we have further evidence they’re intending to hit Malaga Airport.’
‘But there are other airports beginning with M – Madrid, Murcia.’
‘Yes, but put the two together, the diagram plus Hassan. Also some ETA suspects have been sighted around Malaga. It has to be Malaga. No, it all fits. But we’ll keep an eye on the others as well. Martín is on his way to Malaga. I’ll go and join him. Gracias, Max. Dinner in Madrid soon.’
Max went down the stairs, and reported to Chávez.
‘Well done, Max. You have a birthday celebration for your abuela to attend, don’t you? Can’t have that spoilt in any way. I suggest you go now. I also suggest you carry your gun with you. You’re known to the terrorists, and we can’t take any chances.’
‘Thanks, sir. Will do.’
On his way home, Max walked through the maze of streets behind the cathedral. He had spotted a suit on sale. Paula would be pleased if he turned up looking a little like Antonio and Lorca might have done on the opening night of Blood Wedding some seventy years ago.
He was right . . . the suit fitted perfectly.
‘Would el señor like a shirt and tie to go with it? We have a cream silk bow tie which would be perfect.’
He normally avoided ties, but this was a special occasion. ‘Let me see it,’ he said. He bought the tie.
Max strolled into Plaza Nueva with his suit bag, then along el Paseo de los Tristes, and up the steep zigzag to his flat. His ribs were almost completely healed. He made himself a sandwich, had a siesta, then a shower, and dried off on the terrace. Yes, it was going to be a perfect evening.
The family had arranged to meet at the Alhambra Palace Hotel for drinks and nibbles before driving over to the Generalife Open Air Theatre. The main meal would be about midnight. Max set off about eight to the hotel.
Granada came to life as darkness was falling. Max walked up la Cuesta de los Chinos, the ancient funeral route to the Alhambra cemetery, alongside the stream that never lacked water. He continued down past the Washington Irvine Hotel, now in a sad state of disrepair, and then entered the vestibule of the Alhambra Palace Hotel. He was a little early, but he wanted to ensure everything was in order. He asked to see the manager.
‘Yes, Señor Romero. Everything is as it should be. I explained to Señor Juan that we have a large group of American naval officers from Rota staying, a stag night I believe they call it. They could be a little noisy, but I have ensured that your rooms are well away from theirs. We also have a wedding reception. So we are very full. But your dining table can be either on the terrace or inside in the far corner of the dining room.’
‘It’s a lovely night,’ said Max. ‘Full moon. I think outside would be best.’
‘Yes, certainly. Any special requests to Chef?’
‘No, but we have children in the party. Can we order now and have our food as soon as we get back from the performance? We should be back here at midnight.’
‘An excellent idea. I’ll ask the waiter to bring you the menus.’
‘Thank you. The rest of the family should be here soon. We’ll order then.’
Max ordered a beer, and drank it on the terrace. He glanced at the two papers he had taken with him. Both carried a report on the front page that Palestine and Israel were on the verge of signing an historical peace agreement. There were riots in Gaza and the West Bank, opposing the deal.
‘Would you like to order now?’ asked the waiter.
‘No. I’ll wait until the others arrive. That’s a Basque accent, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. I’m from Bilbao.’
‘Strange language, Basque. Not related to any other, I believe.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
Max sipped his beer, looking at a menu. He’d almost finished the beer when Paula, Juan, Isabel and the children arrived.
Max kissed Paula and Isabel on both cheeks, and lifted Encarnita into the air as he kissed her. Leonardo looked thoroughly scrubbed, and not happy. Juan was pale and stiff. They gave each other a quick manly hug.
They sat on the terrace, overlooking the city, the plain and the mountains in the distance. As they were ordering, Max’s sister, Susanna, and his father Bernardo arrived. Paula shrieked with delight.